


A Bloody Jacket

by Ember



Series: Bloody [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Hurt, M/M, Wounds, bloody stomachs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ember/pseuds/Ember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He had to work to not slump against Derek, no matter how tired he was. It was a far off thought, something that would swing into the forefront of his mind only to recede like morning mist. Don’t lean, don’t press; it’ll hurt. Derek’s arms felt like steel, taunt and binding, holding up his legs.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bloody Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Kaciart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/) and her awesome picture that I thought worked so well with this series! Wow, been meaning to do this forever...
> 
>  
> 
> [Find the picture here](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/35252244967)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/35252244967)  
> 

The stench of blood was something that Stiles would never get used to, no matter how many times he smelled it; that was especially true for his own. The slash wounds on his stomach felt raw and jagged, a sluggish pain pulsing against the skin. He could feel the sticky wetness press his t-shirt against his stomach, in an odd way reminding him of sweaty jerseys after a lacrosse practice.

He had to work to not slump against Derek, no matter how tired he was. It was a far off thought, something that would swing into the forefront of his mind only to recede like morning mist. Don’t lean, don’t press; it’ll hurt. Derek’s arms felt like steel, taunt and binding, holding up his legs.

“You have to stop doing this,” said Derek, and his voice sounded so tired. Not angry or disappointed, just tired.

Stiles tried not to think how much the tone reminded him of his dad. “I’m not trying to get myself killed, despite what you all seem to think.” He shifted, wincing as he did so, and his throat scratched uncomfortably with every word he spoke. A far off idea that it was probably made it raw from all of the screaming he had done tonight. “It’s not my fault I can’t heal like you all can.”

Derek didn’t answer him, only trudged forward. Every step, no matter how careful, sent bile rolling in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. He knew that he couldn’t vomit, not now, not all over Derek’s back, though somehow he thought that the werewolf would handle the action how he had handled everything tonight. With stoic unsureness.

It was still dark out, but it would be morning soon. The air had a grey filter, the sky a lighter shade of black then it had been only minutes ago. Details, focus on the details. Derek’s back, sturdy, clad in black leather. So sad to see it covered in the rusty red of blood. It was probably nice. Maybe it was something his sister had gotten him, or something he had bought on impulse in New York. Stiles had never thought to ask.

“Hey, are you alright?” Derek asked. He glanced over his shoulder with assessing eyes. “Keep talking.”

Stiles gave a weak chuckle. “Can do. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s talk. Ask anyone. Just, right now, it kind of hurts you know?” His eyes were growing heavy, in a way that seemed artifical, a daze that was drug-like in its stickiness. He kept swaying forward, leaning ever closer, his hand pressed tight to his stomach to try to hold in the bleeding. He couldn’t lean forward, it was going to hurt, but that thought was receding like a low tide, made a muddy red by the morning light, the morning light that Stiles just wasn’t sure was going to come anymore.

“Keep talking. Come on Stiles, don’t stop talking.”

“Is that concern I hear?” Stiles gave a pained smile. “I never thought I’d hear the day.” His voice was weak, like that crappy tea Mrs. McCall always made for him and Scott. It was a bargain brand. Two bucks cheaper.

“Why do you drink it then?”

Stiles head lulled up. He hadn’t realized he was talking. “Would be rude not to, right? I don’t even like tea. Why caffeinate myself without at least enjoying it? She’ll probably make me drink a lot of it though, when I get to the hospital. Hospital tea is even worse than crappy store brand tea.”

“I’ll go on a run to a coffee shop, get you the real stuff. It’ll be morning soon.”

But Stiles wasn’t sure if ever was going to be morning. He felt like it would be dusk forever, as if they were trapped in a twilight realm of actual twilight. Why hadn’t they ever done that, anyway? Wait, they had, in that crappy modern version. There was a cave and the sun wasn’t coming up and they had to kill someone...

“Yeah, it was pretty crappy. Come on, keep talking.” Derek’s hands on Stiles’ legs clenched tighter, as if to pinch him awake. “Keep talking. It’s almost morning.”

Stiles breathing was growing shallow. He could feel it skate over his lungs, thin as a wisp. He was tired, so tired. Before he knew it he was pressed flat against Derek’s back, his shirt clinging stickily to the leather.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Stiles rested his chin against Derek’s shoulder, making his stomach protruding back. He couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. In the back of his mind he knew he was going into shock. He hoped he was going into shock. But the thought was like morning mist, like a low tide painted red; impossible to grasp. He grasped the front of Derek’s jacket tight with his hand, fisting the material as he fought to stay awake. “I ruined your jacket.”

“It’s alright,” Derek told him, and he sounded like it was anything but.


End file.
